


Wonder

by ThoughtsCascade



Series: Praise replaces Pain [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Neuroatypical Characters, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Sex as self punishment, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:06:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoughtsCascade/pseuds/ThoughtsCascade
Summary: (Sometimes, you wonder if you actually hate him. Usually it’s during sex. Sometimes you wonder when you’re fooling yourself, sex or the rest of the time. Sometimes you wonder if he has the same thoughts.)





	

You know he knows you hate him. You also know he kind of loves it.

Kind of might be putting it lightly.

He needs to be hated, craves it. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he’s scared of how he’d react if someone showed him even an ounce of kindness. (Except, maybe, Dr. Wells, but even that can be described more as taking care of assets than genuine kindness, it seems. He’s always slightly too quick to anger, to lose the smile, around Hartley. At least, lately.)

And you...you were a very good way for him to get what he needed. Wanted, maybe?

Maybe you don’t know better, because now you can’t really think of a better way to describe it, or come up with a better theory.

You don’t actually remember when this started. This being, of course, the casual hatefucks. (“There’s nothing quite like a hatefuck,” you remember him saying one time, you think before but possibly after. You’re inclined to agree, but while it seems to be the type of sex he favors, for you it’s more a way to pass time.)

Hartley had been even more obnoxious than usual this week. He knew you’d take it out on him next time you met.

Actually, he’s been so obnoxious, you’ve decided to just...not give him what he wants. See how he likes it.

Of course, with Hartley it’s pretty difficult to tell what he gets off on and what he wants for some other reason (or even what the other reasons might be, self-punishment or imagined repentance or to throw you off or he knows or suspects you enjoy it or something else entirely.)

You’re pretty sure it’s deliberate. Still, he won’t be getting anything he wants tonight, whether that want is real or feigned.

Well, he’ll still be getting off. But on your terms.

Not that it isn’t normally on your terms. For someone with such a need to be in control he’s surprisingly willing to let you take the lead in bed. He likes to be tortured, maybe giving up control is just another form of it.

Maybe not. Doesn’t really sound like him. You can’t think of a better reason, but then again, you never really talk about it.

But for real, you have no idea what his actual kinks are. It’s annoying as hell.

Doesn’t matter.

Tonight, he’s not getting hatefucked. No injuries, no pain, just...generally what the average person wants from a casual fuck.

He’s going to hate it.

Hey, you never said you were an evil genius. He’s the experienced asshole between the two of you.

And technically it probably is still a hatefuck. Since you hate each other. And will be fucking.

Not the point.

You’re dressed down tonight, because he hates that. Those are the nights he (or you, whoever’s the guest) ends up too exhausted to leave, and you just end up sharing a bed. Nights you’re in a somewhat more mild mood, you’ll dress up, more nicely than you do for work, give him something to look at. Tonight though, it’s just Pokémon pants, and a Harry Potter t-shirt oversized enough to hide your figure. (Hartley may be an ass, but at least he’s never been an ass about  _that_. He knows what lines to not cross, let you keep stuff on during sex in the beginning and even now, when you have days you’re too uncomfortable. Small mercies. Hasn’t mentioned it to anyone either. Which is great, since you’ve somehow managed to remain stealth.)

You hear a knock at the door and go to get it with a grin. You were expecting him. He always lets you know when he’s coming over and gives you a time. You just drop in whenever, or occasionally wait for him to leave work and just follow him to his car. You wonder if it’s just another difference in your personalities, or says something about your views of each other. (You never expect him to be busy unless it’s work related. You never expect him to be unsettled by a knock at the door. You wonder if he thinks you have days you’re busy, or days where having someone knock on your door would set you off. Sometimes you wonder if you wonder about him thinking of you too much.)

He’s impeccably dressed, as always. Sweater vest ( _that nerd_ ), button up shirt underneath it. Pants (obviously). They’re tight, skinny jeans. His hair isn’t styled, however, and the clothes he’s wearing aren’t the same as the ones he was wearing at work. He went home and showered. Which is nice, actually. Considering the fact you like the texture of his hair better without product (and you know that he knows that and that you know that he knows and so on and so forth forever). And sometimes the smell of the stuff he wears (Perfume? Cologne? Deodorant? You have no clue) gets to be too much for you. He doesn’t wear obnoxious amounts, and it doesn’t matter on an ordinary day when you’re working with him, but sometimes, after a long day, when you’re that close to him as you’re kissing or sucking or whatever, additional sensory input just gets...overwhelming.

You almost reconsider your plans. But hey, it’s literally just nice sex. If he hates it for whatever reason, he can stop it. He might even like it more.

Of course, that’s another issue you two have. Neither of you actually really has a way of saying stop. So far, it hasn’t seemed like either of you have had to, but you haven’t even talked about it. Boundaries, limits, what is and isn’t okay...anything, really. There have been times when one of you is going to bring it up, you can both tell whenever it’s about to happen. But somehow the conversation never ends up happening. You would stop if things ever got to be too much for you. You think (hope?) he would do the same.

You don’t really bother to greet him, just shut and lock the door. “Do you want anything to eat? Drink? Or should we just get to it?” You ask.

He shoots you a look. You know that look very well. He has it some nights. It’s a look signifying he needs to be hurt, now. (Sometimes you wonder if he even wants the sex at all, or just wants to be hurt by someone he can trust to not go too far, and this is the easiest way to get that. Some nights, you wonder if he does trust you to not go too far. Some nights, you wonder if he cares.)

Well, he’s not getting that tonight. Sucks for him. You’re a scientist, as much as he criticizes at times. And tonight, you’re pulling an experiment.

You shrug. “Just thought I’d ask. C’mon then.”

He begins walking to your bedroom, you’re content to follow.

He’s taken off his shoes and placed them by the door by the time you arrive. You begin to undress him slowly. You pull the vest over his head, careful to not touch his glasses. You begin to unbutton his shirt, but stop to take his hands as he goes to remove his glasses. You shake your head. (Usually, you let him take them off or leave them on as he will. Usually you don’t care if he can see you or not.) His expression becomes questioning, but after a second’s hesitation he lowers his hands, keeping them by his sides.

You resist the urge to smile, because you’re pretty sure that wouldn’t get you a positive reaction. You leave your clothes on, and his mostly on, not bothering to take his arms out of the sleeves, as you push him on to the bed.

He falls back without fuss, tilting his head at you. Not quite challenging, but more than simply questioning, what you’re going to do next. You kneel over him, a leg on either side of his right leg. He squirms a bit, trying to get friction against the leg that’s between his. You let him for a few seconds, before putting your hands on his waist to hold him down. He immediately stops.

“Good,” you murmur. You can see his brief look of shock, but he doesn’t say anything. (Generally, neither of you talks. Certainly not compliments. Noises are one thing, a natural reaction. Words? Words can be turned against you, which makes them another thing entirely.)

You stare at him for a while. He’s biting his lip, almost beginning to look...nervous? Huh.

Well, that was odd enough you decided maybe you better get a move on. You begin kissing him, starting from the bottom of his stomach just above his jeans, and moving up his chest. There’s some cuts and bruises there. Some you caused. Many you didn’t.

You’re at the top of his chest, and he tilts his head, giving you access to his neck. You can still faintly see bruises from the last time. You’d been strangling him. He’d been wearing concealer every day, you’d suspected. Now it was confirmed.

You continue to do the unexpected. Instead of choking him, you kiss him. You’re rewarded with a short, wavering gasp, which he quickly cuts off. By the time you look at his face, he’s blanked it. That’s...something.

Well, he isn’t showing any negative emotion. Next step?

You pause, considering reconsidering. Eh, you decided to try this, might as well see it through unless he tells you to stop. You begin massaging his chest and speak once again. “You know,” your tone is conversational, which seems to startle him, “I’ve been having some doubts. I’m not sure you’re nearly as much an ass as you pretend to be.”

He gives you a look you know well. The patented (or, it should be) Rathaway ‘What are you getting at’ look. You grin. “My family lives in Keystone, did you know that? Actually, my doctor’s office is there too.” Hartley only looks more confused. “So one day, while I was waiting-this was a week or two after I joined up at STAR Labs?- I picked up their form that they have, with all the classes given by volunteers? Guess who’s name I saw? Teaching an ASL class on Saturdays?”

Hartley showed flashes of multiple emotions too quickly to identify, before settling on one that seemed to be a combination of pride and nervousness-or maybe shame? That didn’t make much sense. Maybe bashful was the right word?

“You still doing that?” Apparently Hartley didn’t realize the question wasn’t rhetorical, as he didn’t answer. After a bit, while you wait, he begins to wriggle around, looking uncomfortable. “I’m waiting for an answer,” you remind him, gently.

He blinks. After a moment, he nods. After another few without notice from you, he responds verbally. “Yes.”

“Nice of you,” you offer in return, resuming your activities, moving to kiss him for a while longer. You move your hands back down to his waist, keeping him there.

You keep a leisurely pace, making sure he won’t get off anytime soon. After a while (your sense of time is off normally, let alone now), you stop to speak again. “Your music is really nice too,” you offer. “I’ve heard you playing sometimes, while I wait outside your apartment. Flute? I know it was you, because I saw the case. Saw enough music kids growing up to be able to recognize an instrument case, even if it’s been shoved under the couch in a hurry. Maybe especially then.” You don’t mention that it’s because of your brother. Hartley wouldn’t care, and it would ruin the mood.

He’s flushing, and looks pleased.

You continue to tease, occasionally moving the leg you put between his so your knee brushes against him.

His emotions are clear, easy to read, and it’s kind of mesmerizing. Some of them are the same as usual, the want for example, but it’s still different, in some indescribable way.

You think you like this better.

(Sometimes, you wonder if you actually hate him. Usually it’s during sex. Sometimes you wonder when you’re fooling yourself, sex or the rest of the time. Sometimes you wonder if he has the same thoughts.)

You pause. “Not to mention, obviously you already know, but you are really smart. I mean, you’re on the same wavelength as Doctor Wells at half his age, meaning you’re probably even smarter than him. But no one ever really praises you on that, do they? You never let anyone, you’re-”

You pause abruptly. His eyes are clenched shut, and he looks a lot like he’s trying to not show any emotions. He’s failing.

You can’t tell what the emotions he’s failing to hide are. Maybe he’s succeeding. For his intent, anyways. What you do know is that that isn’t really one of his normal sex reactions.

“Um, Hartley?” Your voice goes back to normal. More uncertain.

It takes a while, but he opens his eyes and looks at you.

You say his name again, hoping for some acknowledgement this time. He nods. “Do you want to stop?”

He shakes his head, after a pause long enough to have you concerned. You’re still pretty uncertain. “Can you tell me what just caused,” you wave your hand vaguely, “that, so I don’t do it again?”

He sighs and, for moment, actually seems himself. “Nothing specific. Cisco, I’m fine.”

He rarely says your name during these...sessions. Certainly not as if it’s something he normally says, definitely not without a mocking tone. Lots of firsts tonight, it seems.

“You want me to keep going,” you confirm one more time.

He nods. Interesting, how that’s the part he won’t say out loud. Maybe you should…

No, not now. Another time, maybe.

You decide to avoid mentioning his intelligence though, just in case.

“Okay, just making sure. Sue me.”

You begin to kiss more and talk less, spending longer on that than you have been. “You also care about the lab rats. I see you feeding them and letting them play.”

If you couldn’t see him, you would have taken the annoyed sounds he’s making seriously. But you can see the flush. You can see-he needs this, maybe even more than he usually feels the need to be hurt. It probably isn’t sexual then, for either desire. Good to know.

Or they might both be sexual, but considering you’ve never seen him get a boner times he’s hurt or praised outside the bedroom, you doubt it.

“You’re also good with people, when you want to be. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’re always the one giving tours to financial donors, or how you always manage to get them singing your praises and practically throwing money at us.”

He looks _desperate_.

(You wonder when he last heard genuine praise, given for no reason except for the sake of it. You wonder if he ever has.)

You decide he might deserve to just get off already. You remove your hands from his hips, move your leg and let him grind. His actions are almost frantic.

You move and whisper into his ear, “Do you want to cum?” He’s nodding frantically. “Right here, like this, in your pants? Without even being touched? Both of us almost fully dressed?”

He’s whimpering, in a quavering way. A few more seconds, and-

You can tell the moment he’s cum.

He’s still for a few moments after, then opens his eyes. He looks you over deliberately. You can tell what he’s asking.

You get off him and shake your head, hardly thinking. The moment you do, he nods in acknowledgement, takes off his glasses and places them on your bedside table, then buries his face in your pillow.

Then you consider. You don’t actually know if you feel like getting off or not, but either way he doesn’t seem to be in a state to help.

Then you decide it’s too much effort to get yourself to orgasm, you aren’t really in the mood. That happens, sometimes. Sometimes you don’t get off, sometimes he doesn’t, sometimes neither of you do, sometimes both of you do. It evens out.

Or you might have and not noticed it. That’s happened too.

You consider just going to sleep, but sigh. He’ll be uncomfortable in the morning. (And you still feel guilty from that whatever that was from earlier, even if you aren’t sure you caused it.)

You go off and grab a blanket and a damp washcloth. You return to your room and place both the items at the foot of your bed. You go to your drawer and take out pajamas for him.

“C’mon, get up so you can get changed.”

He sits up, and you hear a loud crack. You wince. You’re sure he has the worst bones of anyone you’ve met. He sounds like he’s a decade or two older at times. (The way he dresses and acts generally doesn’t help. The only reason anyone actually guesses his age properly is the fact his face looks ridiculously young. And of course, some people just know it from how he used to be a public figure.)

You do most of the work, pulling off his shirt and pulling an oversized Doctor Who one over his head (it’s large on you, he’s taller so the length actually looks normal, but your shoulders are broader). You help him out of his pants and underwear, quickly wiping him with the washcloth, which you throw into the hamper. You put him in some of your own, boxer-briefs and Star Trek pants.

He really isn’t much help. Sometimes he’s just _useless_ after sex, you’ve learned.

You fold his clothes neatly. You’re a nice person, after all. You’d wash them, but you’re pretty sure he dry cleans (which just _reeks_ of the fact he grew up rich).

You go out and grab another pillow. You return to the room, turning off the light but leaving on that cool projector you have that makes the ceiling look like the sky with stars. Both because it looks cool and because, without fail, if Hartley tries to get up in the dark he ends up injuring himself.

You climb into bed (why do people say climb into bed? It’d make sense if it were a bunk bed- _that would be so awesome, to have a bunk bed_ -or if you were talking about someone shorter than the bed or something, but it really doesn’t make sense), and pull the spare comforter over you both.

You notice he went back to having his face buried in the pillow and okay, you’re kind of concerned, he doesn’t usually sleep like that. You don’t want to-can’t bring yourself to- outright ask him what’s wrong. His shoulders are shaking, so something’s definitely up.

You start playing with his hair, hoping it’ll help. Eventually, he turns over onto his side, the one facing you, and yeah, his face is wet and he seems out of breath. Crying.

Of course, it’s Hartley fucking Rathaway. He won’t let anyone see weakness. So he buries his face in your chest.

Uh. Normally you’d probably just move away, fuck his feelings, but. Today hasn’t actually been that bad in terms of dysphoria. You flip yourself onto your back, which results with him on his stomach again. He wants to hide his face so badly, he can deal. You keep playing with his hair, and eventually fall asleep.

The next day, reflecting on events, you wonder if maybe, you’ve changed things for the better. He seemed in a better than normal mood. You don’t really see him, but that’s what Ronnie says.

(A month and a half later, you wonder if you’d broken some unspoken rule when you realize he’s been avoiding you. You never even see him long enough get the chance to ask. You wonder, if you got the chance, if you would.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm too ace to write sex related stuff. But the idea was stuck in my head to the point of being annoying, so here. Criticism welcomed, etc, etc. I don't really know what else to say here, if I'm being quite honest. If you think I should have tagged anything else, please let me know. If it's still in my head, I may do a Hartley POV one. Thanks for reading.


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